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by cleopatraslibrary



Series: End Quote: A Ryan Bergara Tragedy [1]
Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series), Watcher Entertainment
Genre: Check Notes for tag, Grief, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Memories of Good Times, Spirit Box, Suicidal Ideation, The Supernatural is Not Real, but seriously, major character death offscreen, no comfort, rated for language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-13
Updated: 2020-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:07:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23126014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cleopatraslibrary/pseuds/cleopatraslibrary
Summary: “When I die, I want you to do something,” Ryan said.“Oh yeah? What’s that?” Shane asked.“I want you to take the spirit box to my grave and try to communicate with me, so I can prove you wrong one last time,” he said. Shane blinked and looked over at Ryan.He was staring intently at his thumbs.“Ryan?”“Or whatever device they’re using in the future to talk to ghosts. I’m sure we’ll have figured out a sure-fire way,” he continued on.He asked, “What if I die first?”“Then I’ll do the same,” Ryan said without hesitation. “I’ll try to talk to you.”“Nothing will be there, because ghosts aren’t real.”“Well, if I die first, then I’ll prove to you ghosts are real.”--Or, when Ryan has the chance to prove ghosts are real. (And fails.)
Relationships: Ryan Bergara/Shane Madej
Series: End Quote: A Ryan Bergara Tragedy [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1688848
Comments: 26
Kudos: 215





	Home

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: this could be potentially triggering to anyone who has gone through the loss of a loved one. Please be aware of your mental state before reading, and read at your own discretion. MCDs are certainly not for everyone, so please take of yourself and don't read if you find it will cause you unnecessary pain, discomfort, or squicks you.  
> Suicidal Ideation: there is a slight implication that the POV wants to die. If this squicks you or in some way triggers you, please do not read. Thank you.
> 
> Otherwise, I hope you enjoy!
> 
> This was inspired by the wonderful [helloitsvehere!](https://helloitsvehere.tumblr.com) They posted a prompt on Tumblr a few weeks ago, which is what really started this spiral. I cannot find the post, but I will link the screenshot here. This is just a tiny bit different than what they had in mind, but it was inspired by them nonetheless.
> 
> Once again, if you've made it this far, I hope you enjoy! Thank you so much for reading.

The sky was clear today, but Christ, it was too fucking bright outside. 

Shane squinted against the glaring sun, before picking up his pace and trailing between the gravestones, glancing over the names with a harried ease. He would have worn sunglasses, but it felt disrespectful, somehow. 

He was sure _he_ wouldn’t have minded, but hey. No need to try to tempt the dead any more than Shane used to.

He huffed. Yeah. Try.

(Ryan was shaking like a leaf, even more so than usual. The dark might’ve been getting to him.

“Hey, shitface, why don't you come on out to play? I’ve got a spinal cord here that’ll work great for a game of fetch--”

“Shane,” Ryan said and he fell silent, lowering the GoPro.

“Cut,” he called out and pulled Ryan up against him, tilting his chin so Ryan could tuck his head into the crook of his neck. He didn’t pay mind to the crew, who worked on setting up the next shot, very obviously giving them a moment.

“‘m sorry,” Ryan whispered.

Shane shushed him, running a soothing hand up and down his back. “There’s no need to be,” he reassured. 

They stood together for a few minutes, Ryan taking comfort in his arms.

Despite the stale air, fictionalized fables, and creaking house, Shane really couldn’t think of any other place he’d rather be.

At least, if he couldn’t be there with Ryan.)

Finally, he stood in front of a gravestone emblazoned with his name.

**RYAN S. BERGARA**

**NOVEMBER 26, 1990 - FEBRUARY 22, 2023**

**“END QUOTE.”**

Shane snorted as he read his inscription. He still couldn’t believe he’d added that to his will. He couldn’t believe they all followed through with it.

He reread the grave. 

Three times.

Any humor he felt drained away, leaving a cold drudge in its place, coursing through his veins. He didn’t feel good.

He wanted to go home.

(“You know, there’s nowhere I feel safer than with you,” Ryan said, unprompted. 

Shane, very justifiably he thought, choked on his coffee.

His eyes shot up to Ryan, where he was sitting across from him at the kitchen table. He had that soft look in his eye, with a crooked, amused smile, with hair in his face and his glasses hanging off of his nose.

It was then he realized he was completely gone for this man.

He wanted to make a joke. He knew Ryan expected a bit to ease this tension.

Instead, he wiped his mouth with his hand and, in a voice he didn’t realize could be so gentle, replied, “You’re my home, too.”)

Shane frowned and looked around. He wasn’t going home yet. Not anytime soon.

He cleared his throat.

“Hey Ry.”

The words seemed to echo around the cemetery; they were too loud in the still air. He swallowed.

“It’s… been awhile. Sorry I haven’t visited, I just…” _Couldn’t bear to think of you as gone_. He shook his head. “I’ve been busy.

“I, uh. Well, I brought, ah.” He patted his coat pockets and pulled out the spirit box. The one he so vehemently hated. “I brought your spirit box. Took it off the old Unsolved set and everything.” He looked into the distance, staring at a low hanging tree. He didn’t think cemeteries actually had those. “I won’t be going back to Buzzfeed any time soon, so, I guess it’s mine now.

“Uh, anyway, I thought, maybe, we could see if you could, uh. Communicate with me. Through the, uh, spirit box. Prove me wrong one last time,” he tried to joke. His voice inflection didn’t change. The silence was louder than any thousands of people cheering could have been. “Tough crowd. Well, let’s…”

He flicked it on.

Staticky waves immediately flooded the speakers, with no discernible pattern, rhythm or change.

“Is anyone here?”

Static. 

He sighed quietly to himself and sat down, sitting crisscross applesauce against the grave. He set the spirit box on his thigh.

“Ryan? Are you there?”

Static.

(“When I die, I want you to do something,” Ryan said.

“Oh yeah? What’s that?” he asked, not looking up from the email their agent sent them.

“I want you to take the spirit box to my grave and try to communicate with me, so I can prove you wrong one last time,” he said. Shane blinked and looked over at Ryan.

He was staring intently at his thumbs.

“Ryan?”

“Or whatever device they’re using in the future to talk to ghosts. I’m sure we’ll have figured out a sure-fire way,” he continued on, as if this were a normal three a.m. conversation.

It was eleven a.m. and they’d barely done any work yet.

Shane didn’t mention the time. Instead, he asked, “What if I die first?”

“Then I’ll do the same,” Ryan said without hesitation. “I’ll try to talk to you.”

“Nothing will be there, because ghosts aren’t real.”

“Well, if I die first, then I’ll prove to you ghosts are real.”)

“Ryan, are you there?”

Static.

“Ry?”

Static.

“You know what’ll happen if you don't respond…”

Static.

“I’ll just say ghosts aren’t real.”

Static.

“You won’t have proved anything.”

Static.

“I don't think you’re trying hard enough to manipulate the radio signals.”

Static.

“Hello?”

Static.

“Is anyone there?”

Static.

“We _are_ in a cemetery.”

Static.

“This place should be crawling with ghoulies.”

Static.

“Disappointing.”

Static.

Unease settled on Shane’s skin, crawling down his spine. He leaned back against the tombstone, shuddering when it was unexpectedly cold. 

“Ryan? Are you here?”

He twisted the ring on his finger.

“You know, Ryan, you’re a really shitty hider.”

Static.

“Hider? Maybe?”

Static.

“Well, regardless, I found the ring in your sock drawer.”

Static.

“Your _sock drawer_. What kind of rom-com bullshit move is that?”

Static.

“It’s like you wanted me to find it.”

Static.

“I was cleaning everything out, you know.”

Static.

“Moving to another apartment.”

Static.

“There’s too many…” He paused.

_There’s too many memories. Everywhere I look, all I can see is you. I can’t sleep in our bed. I can’t look at our sink. I can’t look in the mirror, not without thinking about that one time we got really drunk and you gave me all of those fucking hickies that I couldn’t even hide with makeup. Now, whenever I look at myself, all I want are those fucking hickies back, and those were some of the most humiliating things I’ve ever had to wear. And that's saying something._

Shane stared at a piece of grass that got on his leg. The static sounded like a white noise machine at this point. He didn’t know when he trailed off.

“... noisy neighbors,” he finished lamely.

Static.

“Everyone misses you, you know.”

Static.

“No one’s cleaned out your desk. Your extra shirt is still in the bottom drawer, and that stack of papers on the corner of your desk, pressing down on some of the keys on your keyboard.”

Static.

“We should probably move those; there might be a way overdue bill, or something.”

There wasn’t.

He listened to the static for a little while, staring at another patch of grass on the ground. A few tombstones down, there was a fresh bouquet of flowers. He probably should have brought flowers.

(“Tiger lillies?” Shane asked incredulously.

“What’s wrong with tiger lillies?” Ryan shot back.

He raised his hands in a placating manner, though he couldn’t wipe the grin off his face. “Nothin’, man.”)

Shane shook his head.

It would have been disingenuous.

“Ryan…”

Static.

He pulled his legs up to his torso, groaning at the tension in his joints. He couldn't be _that_ stiff, he hasn't been here long; at least he didn't think so. He wrapped his arms around his legs, curling into himself, letting the spirit box clunk onto the grass next to him.

“You know I…”

Static.

“I…”

Static.

“I love you, Ry.”

Static.

“I miss you.”

Static.

“It’s been…”

Static.

He took a deep breath.

“It’s been really hard.”

Static.

“And I’d appreciate that sign you promised me.”

Static.

Static.

Static.

“That evidence you promised me.”

Static.

Static.

Static.

Static.

“Please, I just…”

Static.

Static.

Static.

Static.

Static.

“God, what am I doing,” he whispered. The dread that had settled in the pit of his stomach clenched.

Static.

“What am I doing here?”

Static.

“There’s nothing…”

Static.

“There’s nothing here.”

Static.

“There’s nothing here.”

There was nothing there.

Of _course_ there was nothing there.

Ghosts aren't fucking real.

He didn’t know how long he’d sat against the freshly printed tombstone, waiting for some kind of sign, some kind of message, _some kind of fucking miracle_ from Ryan. He hadn’t even realized he’d allowed himself to hope for the slimmest possibility, _the slimmest chance_ , of communication. His eyes burned.

A lump grew in the back of his throat. 

There was nothing there and there was never going to be anything there, either.

Just static.

Ryan was dead.

Ryan was _dead_ and there was nothing he could do about it.

The cemetery’s outline began to grow fuzzy and he blinked hard, trying to get rid of his blurry vision. It didn’t work; instead, hot, wet tears leaked down his cheeks. Fruitlessly, he scrubbed his face, trying to rid the evidence of his tears.

(“Breathe with me, baby, c’mon,” Ryan murmured against his skin. He kissed the tear tracks staining his cheeks, cupping his sweaty skin in his palms. He looked at Shane like he was his world. 

Shane tried to give him a grin, but he was sure it was loopy and sleepy. 

Ryan smiled properly at him. “You back with me, babe?” he asked. Their bare chests were pressed together, and Ryan’s hand was lazily tracing patterns on his back.

“Mmm, think so,” he whispered back. He shifted, pulling his arm out from beneath him and lightly touching his cheek. “‘S been awhile since I last cried during sex,” he commented idly.

Ryan grinned at him. “I think it suits you,” he said. 

Shane clicked his tongue, shaking his head. “Feral, you are!”)

He tore his hands away from his face, staring down at his red palms with cold, twisted grief in the center of his chest. He inhaled sharply and, before he could stop himself, let out a high, keening whimper. “Oh, God. Oh, God, oh, God, no. No, no, no, no, no, this isn’t happening.”

But it was happening, wasn’t it? It _already_ happened, hadn’t it?

His back was pressed against Ryan’s grave, the tombstone warm from how long he’d been leaning against it. The spirit box, that _stupid fucking spirit box_ , was still on, the static not deviating whatsoever, not even getting interrupted by commercials or radio show hosts. The sun was still glaring down on him, except it was clearly in a different place in the sky than when he arrived. It was just beginning to touch the horizon, in a mockery of a sunset.

And the love of his life was buried six feet beneath him, his corpse slowly waiting to decay and be devoured by earthworms and parasites. 

This time, when he started to cry, he didn’t try to stop it. 

How long had he been denying what had happened? Denying reality?

How long had he been trying to just get by without having to deal with the grief that was clearly weighing so heavily upon him, wrapping around his entire being like an invisible snake, ready to constrict and suffocate at any moment?

How long would it have been before he completely broke?

Shane fell sideways onto the ground, not bothering to move as the grass tickled his skin. He didn’t bother wiping his tears.

Did he already break?

 _I’m closer to Ryan_ , he thought to himself. _This could… I could get used to the ground. The dirt’s kind of soft. I could just sink into the ground and no one would ever know the difference._

No one would know the difference.

In the distance, he could vaguely hear voices droning on, but he didn’t pay them mind. He couldn’t pay them mind.

He tried to remember if he cried at Ryan’s funeral. 

Shane didn’t know.

He threaded his fingers together and brought his hands up to his mouth. He rubbed the ring against his lips.

He didn’t know if he cried at his funeral.

There was another distorted garble of sound, a strained, muffled scream, that he belatedly realized tore from his own throat. 

God, he just wanted to go home.

Please, just let him go home.

_I want to go home._

_I want to go home._

_I want to go home._

The spirit box continued to play static.

**Author's Note:**

> Phew, that was a doozy.
> 
> Death is someone I'm well acquainted with. She is constantly around me, and I'm an easy follower. Despite this, I don't fall prey to her seductions, and doubt I will for a long, long time. I've mostly been writing this as a way to relieve myself of my grief, and I wasn't sure if I wanted to post it, but, well. Here we are.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! I appreciate your continued support, even if I find myself lacking at times. I love all of you dearly. If you enjoyed, leave a comment or a kudos; it's very much appreciated.
> 
> With love, Lexi.
> 
> [my tumblr. come say hey if you'd like to talk!](https://cleopatraslibrary.tumblr.com)


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